


yours eternally: a reprise

by pistolgrip



Series: heavenbound, together [3]
Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hanging Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 06:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: Nio has a concert coming up. Siete makes it his mission to get all of the Eternals to watch, come hell or high water.





	yours eternally: a reprise

**Author's Note:**

> edit: kept using fif instead of funf by accident + minor wording, characterization fixes

“You would _not_ believe what I went through to get these tickets,” Siete says, bursting through the front door to their base. Letting out a laboured breath, he drops into one of the two empty seats at the table, between Uno and Song, and looks around; from what he can tell, everyone’s already been gathered for quite some time.

Quatre snorts. “Decent human interaction with Nio? You're right, for you that probably is an ordeal.”

“I think our exchange was fifty percent sighs from her end, which—if you'll refer to this graph I don't have—is at least ten percent down from last conversation. Guys, I think I'm growing on her.”

Okto looks at him, eyebrow slightly raised. “Only a leader like you would find that an accomplishment after almost four years of operation.”

“The _point is,”_ Siete says, spreading the nine tickets across the table like he's dealing cards, “Nio's actually agreed to allow us to come watch her. Which means, I want _everyone_ on their best behaviour. Absolute _best._ Im _peccable._ This is a nice venue, and I will have no shenanigans.”

Sarasa raises her hand. “Question.”

“Acting civilized and raising your hand already, Sarasa?”

“No, you're not the one asking the question, I am.” Siete opens his mouth, then considers it a lost cause to tell her he knows that. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Are we going? We listen to Nio play all the time. It's cool and we don't have to dress up all fancy and pretend we're not wild 'n' crazy for a night.”

“We're all normal," Quatre mutters, "that's just you.”

Siete shrugs. He’s not sure himself what compelled him to ask Nio in the first place; she’s had concerts before, but she’d always mentioned them in passing, after she was done, to explain an absence. “It's nice to support each other, isn't it?” Looking around the table, he asks, “Anyone else here have any artistic pursuits here they want us to see? Funf, you got any finger paintings we could hang on the fridge?”

Funf tilts her head. “Finger painting?”

Laying his hands on the table, Siete whistles lowly. “You’ve never? So after this, we're gonna have an arts and crafts night. And you, Six, how are your bonsai going?”

Everyone’s heads turn to face Six, who’s still as a statue. His voice gives nothing away. “Be careful about the jokes you make.”

“No, no, I'm serious—”

“You're good with plants?” Esser asks quietly from next to him.

“...And if I am?” Six keeps his voice neutral. Challenging.

“Consider it a curiosity of mine.”

Song smiles, on the other side of Six. “It is nice to hear about what everyone's doing outside of our busy work. And it'll be fun to dress up for a night, don't you think?”

Ah, good ol’ Song. Siete can always count on her. “That's exactly what I think. So no ifs, ands, or buts about it. We're gonna support Nio, ‘cause she’s one of us, and she loves doing this... music stuff.” He smiles and leans back in his chair. He thinks the Eternals’ familiarity with each other have reached the point where Siete could, at the very least, guilt trip them into accepting. Besides, they'll probably enjoy themselves once they're there.

Song leans in to take a ticket, and everyone follows suit until the only one left is sitting in front of Siete. Flipping the ticket over in his hands, Six says, “Are we done here? You told us this would be an all day affair.”

“Ah, that's because it is.” Siete grins, drawing out the dramatic pause. “We're going clothes shopping, gang. Get ready to hit the town!”

With the revelation, he sees a variety of expressions spread across the room; muted excitement, disbelief, confusion, agreement. Six's mask. “This is a waste of time, Siete, and you know it,” Quatre says.

“See, I'm not so sure.” Siete raises a finger when he sees Quatre begin to object again. “We're a crew, albeit not the most traditional one. We need to support each other's passions. What use are the strongest people if they won't even be there for each other?”

It's something that's been on Siete's mind for a while now. Being in touch with the Grandcypher every once in a while makes him think about how the Eternals _could_ be; maybe once upon a time, the mystery shrouding their pasts, as well as their generally decentralized operation, could have been a strength. And it's not as if they're completely incapable of working together if need be, but that's the thing. _If_ need be.

If they can't get along when not in the heat of the battle, can they really there for each other?

A silence falls over the room. (Siete tries not to preen because he knows they’re all thinking it over, and he knows he’s _right._ _)_

It’s Uno that speaks up first, smiling gently. “You do have a point, Siete. I suppose we’ve tried to do things our own way for long enough. I, for one, agree wholeheartedly with today’s mission,” he chuckles.

Others around the room nod in agreement, and then Quatre asks, still wary, “Where are you getting the money to buy nine whole people fancy clothes?”

Winking, Siete puts his finger up to his lips. “That’s a secret. But if, uh, Siero asks you for a favour, understand that there’s no conceivable way to turn her down.”

* * *

The stores that Siete takes them to aren’t too far from where they met today, but it feels like a whole other world when the girls step in and look around. There are mannequins that look more dressed up than any of them would have ever imagined, colours of every shade and shine like a sea in the pearly white and cream store interior.

It’s intimidating, but as the oldest of the bunch, Song keeps her head up and picks a section of the store at random. The only person that follows her is Esser; both Sarasa and Funf immediately break off to run somewhere else in the store, and the store clerk, clearly considering them higher priority, looks at both of them quickly before deciding to follow Sarasa.

“Just us, then.” Song sighs, but she can’t keep the smile out of her voice as she watches the store clerk try to reason with Sarasa. She pushes aside hangers, humming, while Esser follows quietly. “I think you’d look nice in a darker colour. Your hair is so beautiful. And it should be given a chance to shine.”

“We’ll be inside, and not be the main event.” Esser seems awkward, her hands sliding over the smooth material of the dresses. “Moreover, is this really okay?”

“ _That_ dress?” Song points to the one Esser has her hand on right now.

“Hm? Oh—no, I mean, in general. I’ve never been one to dress up, and my brother and I haven’t exactly been to events like this, with a stricter restriction on one’s dress.” Esser looks out of her element; she’s normally calm, viewing things with a rational eye that Song can admire, but now she looks uncomfortable among all the high-quality fabric, unsure whether she belongs.

It’s a feeling that Song herself is incredibly familiar with, and before she can help it, a small giggle escapes from her lips. Esser looks up to her, confused, but Song smiles. “It _is_ a little scary, isn’t it? The fanciest thing I ever wore for a long time was the Eternals uniform, and that’s saying something.”

“When did that change?”

“Well, a year or so ago, actually. A friend of mine lent me one of her dresses because I asked, and it didn’t really fit, but when I looked at the mirror it was nice to pretend.” She smiles wistfully, catching their reflection in a mirror across the store. Esser looks up at her with apprehension, not quite believing, but not quite wanting to prove her wrong. “She said I looked beautiful, anyway. I thought for a long time that I didn’t deserve to be called something as kind as ‘beautiful’.”

“But you are,” Esser says, barely above a whisper. “You’ve always carried a quiet grace within you that I admired.”

“Funny. I thought the same thing about you, Esser.”

The look of muted shock on Esser’s face is clear as day. Song’s smile grows wider; the feeling is familiar. “But...”

“How about you think of it like a mission, then? You have to sneak in and watch how Nio works, but you have to be in disguise.”

“I’m not a child. I don’t need to play pretend games,” Esser says, and Song laughs.

“I didn’t mean to insinuate as such. But sometimes the oddest things help us, don’t you think? How about this—you help me look for a dress first?”

“My tastes may not be...”

“Oh, hush, I’m sure you’ve got a better eye for things than you give yourself credit for.”

Song has about five years on Esser, and although they’re both in their twenties now, she remembers her life around that time—she was just a year or two off from being scouted for the Eternals, wandering through a larger city than the one she’d been in all her life, trying to make sense of friendships (or lack thereof). The title of _the Eternals_ is not a light one (although two of them have proficiency in light magic, she giggles), an extra burden on the attempt to navigate through young adulthood.

Everyone in this makeshift crew has more in common than they care to admit; Siete may have said that they seemingly only help each other when it comes down to the wire in battle, but sometimes just the company of people who have struggled similarly is enough, for a while. Now, though, Song thinks they’re well past that point. There’s definitely room to get to know each other much better.

Taking Esser’s hand gently, she starts walking towards a section of the store with lighter coloured dresses. “Now come help me out, I think I saw something I liked before Sarasa ran off.”

* * *

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Siete says, stepping out of the changing room and checking the fit in the mirror, trying not to disturb the pins. From his left, Uno does the same, chuckling.

“I suppose it has. Moreso for myself than you, I imagine.”

“Hey, without you, I don’t think I’d ever have worn anything this nice in the first place.” Siete lifts his chin to tie his bowtie properly, and he looks down at Uno in the mirror. “Or, you know, be here at all, whether it be with the Eternals or not.”

Laughing, Uno curls his mustache. “You always have more talent than you give yourself credit for, Siete.”

“Hey, I already give myself a lot of credit. You sure you’re ready to inflate my ego like that?”

“It’s something I’ve come to terms with since you were a bratty teenager that nearly burnt down my parent’s house because you were too prideful to listen to instructions. A kind reminder from life that worse things have happened.”

“Ouch, never gonna let that go, are you? Blame Siero for hiring some listless, pimply high schooler looking for a summer job and dumping him at a rich mansion that she inexplicably owned.” Sighing, he gives up on the bowtie and crouches on the ground so Uno can tie it for him. “You think Siero knows more about peoples’ life trajectories than she lets on?”

“Undoubtedly,” Uno says, finishing up the bowtie and patting Siete on the cheek. “It was a miracle she even saw any potential in you to begin with, but Siero is nothing if not a miracle-worker.”

Siete stands back up, rolling his neck. “Et tu, Uno?”

“Case in point. How many times have Siero and I tried to teach you how to tie these things? You really should know how to do this by now. You’re too young to blame a failing body.”

From Uno’s left, Quatre steps out, snorting. “You kiddin’? Siete? _You_ _ng_ _?_ Fucker’s gonna keel over any second.”

“Respect your elders,” Okto says, also emerging from his changing room. He slaps a hand against Quatre’s back. Quatre tries valiantly not to get launched forward with the motion of it, biting back an annoyed grunt.

All of them look past Okto, waiting for Six to step out and also give a conveniently-timed comment. Instead, from his stall, they hear rustling and barely-audible noises of complaint, and the tailor assigned to him asking him quietly and politely to stop wiggling around, _please,_ _it’s not meant to take this long, especially for Erunes,_ _open backs are a little easier to_ _—_

A squawk emerges out of the changing room, and everyone leans in slightly closer, waiting for Six to emerge. “Fuckin’ baby,” Quatre mutters, and then they hear _not the mask,_ so high-pitched it’s almost incomprehensible.

“Hoo, boy,” Siete sighs. “Might be in for a while. Get settled.”

* * *

Esser looks a little bit more at ease now that she's accepted that she's helping Song look first before finding anything for herself. It’s the little victories. Song smiles. “So, I was thinking something like _this—”_

She stops her sentence dead in the middle when she pushes apart the dresses on the racks and Funf jumps out, holding a dress. “Boo!”

Song clutches her heart and pretends to fall over backwards. “Oh no, my heart’s stopped! If only someone would help bring me back to life!” Perhaps it’s a little morbid to joke about death and dying and performing once-taboo revival magic, but Funf isn’t exactly the average child.

She laughs, slapping her knee, and Song leans in to tickle her sides to making her shriek with laughter. Children always grow so fast, Song thinks with wonder, not quite believing that the almost-preteen in front of her was so small when they first met, so full of raw energy that’s been so carefully honed. The amount of times this small, unassuming child has saved their lives and the lives of others is almost unbelievable, and she’s done it all while managing to retain her optimism. Innocence may be another story, when she’s seen the markers of battle from the rest of the Eternals, has heard the political turmoil they occasionally involve themselves in—but her smile is still bright, and her curiosity only grows stronger with age.

When Funf is laughing so hard she’s crying, Song withdraws, her own cheeks hurting from how she’s smiling. “Anyway,” she says, a little breathless, “let’s see this dress you’ve picked out.”

Wiping tears from her eyes, Funf takes the dress in her hands and lifts it up. “I like this one.” It’s a lighter sundress, a sunshine yellow that fits the rest of her energy. Song thinks it might be a little too bright for Nio’s concert, but it looks too cute to not indulge her.

“Did you try it on?” Esser asks.

“Not yet...” Funf looks a bit sheepish as she continues. “I was waiting for you to come and find me.”

“It’s a nice dress.” Esser nods, crouching down so she’s more at Funf’s height. “If you haven’t tried it on, then let’s fix that—”

All three of them startle when they hear a cackle from one of the changing rooms, and one of the doors is kicked open and smacks against the wall to reveal Sarasa, in a dress that’s surprisingly well-fitting and heels that rival her horn accessories for unnecessary in presence and size. “Hey, girls! Check these bad boys out!”

A warning dies on the store clerk’s lips as Sarasa jogs over between small aisles with sparkling jewellery, like a bull in a china shop—or at least she _should_ be, but she magically avoids everything breakable, even though she’s barely over four feet tall and her horns should, by all means, be scraping everything off the shelves.

They watch in complete disbelief as Sarasa walks up to them, arms on her hips and kicking her leg up high. She’s picked a shorter dress with stretchier material, and Song quickly pats her leg down. “Please be more conscious of your... everything,” she says, desperately. All things aside, it’s a rather lovely dress. She’ll have to tip the store clerks extra for their patience.

“Gotta say though, thought we were goin’ out to eat. Then you go and say _heels_ go on my _feet?”_ Sarasa scoffs.

The three of them look in confusion, until Esser’s face drops. “That’s _veal.”_

“Veal, heel, tomato, potato,” she says, waving an arm. “Anyway, you guys see this? These are _ridiculous!_ They’re half the size of my face!”

“And you can walk in them,” Song says, blankly.

“Yeah? It’s just like regular feet, but like, taller. Weird.” Shrugging, Sarasa turns around and heads back to the changing room. “Anyway, I’m gonna get this dress ‘cause it fits and also these heels because they’re hilarious. I win! You snooze, you lose! Booyah!”

As quickly as she came, she’s gone, back into the stall. Funf, Esser, and Song stare blankly at the closed door, and Esser says, “I’ve never met anyone more fitting for the description ‘force of nature’.”

* * *

It’s nice to have a well-dressed crew; it’s why he insisted on the uniforms in the first place, went out of his way to sew things that people would be comfortable with (that half of them ended up modifying themselves, anyway, but hey. Whatever works).

Still, suits are a whole other beast, and they are looking sharp as _hell_. Siete’s heart fills with pride as he looks in the mirror, at everyone standing in line all dressed up in well-fitting pieces, at their expressions of satisfaction.

At Six’s mask.

“Y’know boys, we’re lookin’ good,” Siete says, enthusiastically.

“Except for one person,” Quatre mutters under his breath. Uno steps out of formation and walks easily towards where Six is standing. By all means, Six looks confident, arms crossed and head up high.

But he’s still got a mask on.

“You don’t want to see yourself without the mask?” Uno asks, moving to stand next to him. “There’s nothing like a well-fitting suit to really make you feel on top of the world, hm?”

“We are going to a concert,” Six says gruffly. It’s offset by the curiosity in his voice as he runs a hand over the lapels and around the collar of the dress shirt underneath. “The mask does not obscure my ears. I do not use my eyes to listen.”

Okto looks at him through the mirror. “The arts are a pursuit worthy of being experienced from all senses, including sight. You must be prepared at all times to be open and accept blessings from everywhere, unlikely sources they may be.”

“Listen,” Quatre says, rolling his eyes. “Nio’s gonna look down and see us and be like, ‘wow, they actually came’, and she’ll look at all of us and smile, and she’ll see your goddamn mask in the dark and pass out. The eyes glow red, I swear to god.”

“It would be more of a shock for her to see me without it,” Six says warily, his ears starting to flatten against the back of his head. Everyone’s eyes turn to Siete, waiting for him to give a conveniently timed comment.

Siete purses his lips. “Well, I feel like we’d get kicked out if you tried to come in with that thing. And it’ll be dark enough that you could hide your face during the performance.” He holds his hand out, beckoning. “Half-mask.”

“But—”

“Six.”

Everyone watches, leaning in unintentionally, as Six’s hands come up to the side of his face, tracing the edge of the mask, and in the blink of an eye, he’s gone—sprinted halfway across the store and trying to find somewhere to hide.

“You son of a bitch,” Quatre yells, immediately giving chase. “The more you delay this, the longer we’re stuck here, you dense motherfucker!”

“I didn’t think our company was that bad,” Siete muses, watching them run around the store.

“I did tell you once that the only person capable of making something out of a group of misfits like this was you.” Okto’s mouth moves in a way that Siete could _probably_ consider it a smile. He’ll take it.

“You speak as if you’re not part of that group.”

“I believe that would be of great insult to me.” That was _probably_ a joke, right?

Six loops back to the changing rooms, trying to sidestep the three of them left behind; in a smooth set of actions, Uno trips Six, lets him fall into Okto’s arms, and Siete snatches the mask off his face while he’s disoriented. Quatre’s ripped half of the pins out of his suit jacket and pants to use as projectiles and stops in aiming one more when he sees the scene play out.

“Please give it back,” Six stutters, head hanging between his shoulders as Okto holds him up by his arms.

“Just a sec, just a sec.” Siete’s fiddling with the mask, trying to figure out where the different latches are, before giving up. He puts it in the range of Six’s hand before pulling it away, clicking his tongue. “Half mask.”

Six nods, and head as obscured as possible, he disconnects his mask, practically slamming a piece that just covers an eye onto his face. Siete thinks he might bruise.

Standing up straight and clearing his throat, his voice regains its natural low timbre, feigning calm. “If any of you attempt that ever again, you will all have to individually tell me which of the five senses you’d like to keep before I eviscerate the remnants.” His face is bright red, and his frown is tinged with wariness that keeps him from looking as intimidating as he could.

“Grouchy,” Siete laughs. “Now let’s get this finished up.”

The tailors looking in horror nod, and the one helping Quatre is trying her hardest not to look exasperated now that half of his pins are scattered around the store.

* * *

Everyone miraculously makes it to the end of the day with at least one new outfit or arrangements to come back and pick them up, and they part ways silently after agreeing where and when to meet on the day of the concert.

The month passes without them talking to each other again outside of the odd mission or when they cross paths, but there’s a faint excitement in their words, a silent understanding that they’ll find each other at Nio’s concert.

When the day of the concert falls upon them, they all gather at the agreed-upon place, some already changed, others with their change of clothes hanging over their arms. All of them are on time, maybe a bit early—everyone except for Siete. “He’s the one that tells us to meet here and now, and he doesn’t even _show up?”_ Quatre growls.

“It pains me immensely to do this, rest assured,” Six prefaces, “but I am inclined to agree with your sentiment.”

“Literally no one asked. Shut up.”

“Uh,” Funf says over them, tugging at Six’s sleeve. “What is that?”

She points towards something approaching at a distance, rapidly; it’s quickly revealing itself as a small skyfarer’s ship, heading straight for them.

“That’s certainly a ship,” Uno says.

“It’s certainly heading straight towards us,” Esser says, and all of them in the next second have their weapons at the ready, entering a subconscious formation.

“Wait a second,” Song says, her eyes straining in the light of the setting sun reflecting off the clouds. “That’s—”

The ship barrels straight into the dock, causing a minor tremor along the ground they’re standing on. Straightening up, they continue to have their weapons at the ready as an entrance drops down and thumps against the ground, raising dust. Not a single one of them is surprised to see Siete saunter out, already dressed, arms out to his sides.

“How’s that for a team building exercise?” He says, immensely proud of himself.

A dagger sticks itself in the wood by his foot. Everyone walks by him silently, leaving his requests for a high five unfulfilled.

* * *

“I’d forgotten we had a ship,” Quatre says, leaning on the edge of the ship next to Song. The winds are light and the heat is no longer oppressive, and they’re set to leave in just a few minutes.

She hums in agreement. “We don’t do much together. I’m surprised Siete didn’t sell it off after that became obvious.”

“As much as he tries not to show it, that fuckin’ idiot’s sentimental. He most likely held onto it for a time like this to come again.”

“You seem to speak as though it were a weakness,” Song smiles, tilting her head towards Quatre briefly.

“Perhaps the persistence is. It’s as though he never quite knows when enough is enough. When to stop gambling and take his winnings.” Quatre leans his chin in his hand and looks out, sighing. “But I suppose there was no other way to get my sister and I out of the emotional shithole we got ourselves into.”

“Hm?” Song leans in. “I didn’t catch that.”

“It’s not important. Don’t worry about it—listen, you’re helping my sister dress up tonight, right?” He turns to face her completely, voice serious.

“Of course.”

“Alright. Good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s never had the chance to dress up, so... help her out. She likes wearing eyeshadow a lot.”

Smiling at him, Song says, “I’ll do my best.”

* * *

Sarasa puts a finger to her lips, telling Funf to be quiet. Funf nods, and the two of them make finger guns and holds it to their faces, pressing their backs against the wall on either side of the doorway. Funf holds up three fingers, two, one—

“Freeze, scum!” Sarasa kicks open the door with her big heels, and Funf runs in laughing, pointing their finger guns at—

—at a figure that isn’t supposed to be there. Huh. Whoops. In the presumably-abandoned room, Six is sitting on the bed, already dressed, hands gripping so hard around his mask in his lap that his knuckles are turning white. His eyes are wide and staring at them with a look of absolute horror, ears pressed against his head.

There’s a moment of tense silence where they all stare at each other, and it continues as Six’s shaking hands go up to cover his face. “Please leave,” he says, quietly, once the mask is back on his face.

Funf and Sarasa look at each other, shrug, and then run up to Six; Sarasa starts tickling his sides as Funf jumps on the bed, throwing herself onto his back and reaching behind his head to take the mask off. “Song says she’s doing makeup, you should do makeup Six, you’d be pretty!”

His pained laughter from the tickling turns into a noise of despair, hands moving to cover his face. Sarasa just continues and Funf throws the mask on the bed behind her, starting to tickle his neck. There are tears coming out of his eyes as he falls over sideways onto the bed, curling up and laughing uncontrollably. “We’re really gonna have to put makeup on you!” Sarasa yells. “Your eyes are so red from cryin’ they’ll need to be covered up!”

“You don’t—You don’t put makeup _in_ your eyes,” he says between wheezes, and the two finally let up. He stays curled up in a ball and brings his hands up to rub at his eyes.

“See, you know more than I do! C’mon,” Sarasa says, taking his hand and tugging him into a standing position. It’s really more like he has to reorient to catch himself quickly before Sarasa scrapes his face against the floor, and with his free hand, he covers as much of his face as he can.

“But—”

“Nuh-uh,” Funf says, keeping good pace with the two of them. “Everyone’s pretty tonight!”

Sarasa drags him to one of the rooms that the girls have been using to prepare and shoves him down in a seat, turning it around and pushing it until he’s in front of Song, who’s still working on Esser’s makeup. He barely has the time to protest or apologize or even say anything before Sarasa laughs mischievously. “Got ya a present, Song!”

Six covers his face with both of his hands.

* * *

Siete checks the angle of the sun over the horizon, checking to make sure everything is set to take off. Humming under his breath, he leans into the horn next to the helm, and he says in an announcer voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, the S.S.S. is departing for Albion. Making way to Albion,” he says, pulling the ship out of the dock and jolting a little bit from the turbulence. It _may_ have been a while since he’s done this. Nearly crashing the ship earlier probably didn’t help, either.

“The hell does the S.S.S. stand for?” Quatre’s voice comes up through the horn, and he laughs.

“I actually haven’t named the ship, the S.S.S. is just Star Sword Sovereign. And technically, I _am_ departing.”

He hears everyone groan, and he grins as he adjusts the sails to catch the wind.

* * *

“Ground rules,” Siete says as Albion becomes visible. Everyone’s gathered on the deck, watching the night sky light up with stars. “No falling asleep, and definitely no snoring. Don’t clap unless _everyone else_ does. I don’t care if you _think_ you know when a song ends, don’t test it. And _no weapons.”_

At the last one, everyone grumbles, reaching underneath sleeves and things strapped to legs and arms and removing small daggers and knives and guns and whatever else they normally carry on their person. He stares at them once everyone has stopped shifting, and Quatre rolls his eyes and seemingly out of nowhere drops an entire belt of throwing knives.

“ _Thank_ you.” Siete looks at everyone carefully. “Knowing who we are, I know we’ve all still got at minimum one weapon on our person. Just for tonight, your maximum is _also_ one.” Walking backwards towards the helm, he salutes everyone. “And one more important rule.”

When it’s obvious he’s not gonna say it without prompt, Song asks hesitantly, “...what is it?”

“Have fun!” Siete says, spreading his arms and pivoting on one of his heels, continuing to walk towards the helm. “It’ll be a good night. We all know how good Nio is at playing.”

Leaning against the wheel, he looks down at everyone on the deck, starting to disperse without listening to him—but not alone, in groups of two or three, all in the same direction, with light chatter over his words. It’s a far cry from where they were last time they used this ship; they had all looked so much younger, more standoffish, nothing but wary looks in their eyes.

He knows he can’t take all the credit for what he’s seeing now. But he can still enjoy the beginnings of friendship among the crew, becoming more than people gathered for a single lonely purpose, into people gathering for each other.

“Oh! Siete,” Song’s voice calls to him. Turning his head towards her, she points at him accusingly. “Once you’ve docked the ship, make sure to come down. We need to fix your nightmare hair before we get there. It’s gotten worse in open winds. It’s a real work of art.”

He sticks out his tongue. “Art should be appreciated with all the senses!”

“Not if it’s already burnt out our eyes,” Quatre yells as he disappears below the deck. “Some leader you are!”

Chuckling, he thinks, some leader he is—maybe it’s alright to start thinking of himself as part of the crew, too.

* * *

Arriving at the venue goes surprisingly smoothly; everyone is on their best behaviour as they present their tickets, and they’re escorted to the front row, nine seats all beside each other. Everyone piles in haphazardly, receiving programs.

Siete flips it open, humming. “So it seems like for the first part, Nio’ll be playing stuff on that koto she always lugs around.” Sarasa leans over his shoulder, despite having her own program. He moves the program so he can see it without her horns blocking it. “For the second part, she’ll be playing solos on a... pedal harp.”

Sarasa tilts her head. Siete sighs, moving the program again. “What. Pedals? Like a bike? She gonna ride around on stage?”

“I... don’t think that’s how that works.” But Siete furrows his eyebrows in thought. What _does_ that mean? “Then the third part, which takes up the majority of the night from what I can see, is her performing with some members from Sky Philharmonic. Our Nio’s really in the big leagues, huh?”

“Impressive,” Uno says from the other side of Siete. “To be part of the Eternals and still find time to pursue artistic interests.”

“To be fair, Nio always says she doesn’t like fighting.” Siete crosses his legs and leans on the armrest. “She seems to see the Eternals as an unfortunate side-effect of her pursuing her admittedly impressive powers.”

“Still, it is rather admirable. Are you seriously considering the arts and crafts night?” Uno chuckles. “It’s been a while since I’ve attempted anything artistic.”

“Absolutely. I’ve got someone in mind who’d help us. She owes me a thing or two.”

Further down the row, Quatre is fussing with Esser’s hair, making sure it’s staying in place. Her laughter is light at her brother’s continued insistence, and she says, “It’s good enough. We’re not meant to be seen tonight, as it were.”

“Even then,” he says, making sure there’s exactly the same amount of hair over her left shoulder as her right, “Dressing up is a rare occasion to begin with. I’d like you to make sure you’re happy with the way you look.”

“Even if I were to have not worn makeup, the dress alone is enough to make me feel somewhat out of place from who I am everyday. It’s... a little exciting.”

On the other end of the row, right in the aisle seat, Okto sits patiently and looks through the program. It’s a completely different sight from Funf sitting next to him, who’s kicking her feet in excitement and pointing at things on the program, asking Song questions. “What’s this mean?” She asks, pointing to one of the song titles.

“‘Arabesque’...? Um, I’m not entirely sure, unfortunately.”

“And this?” This time, she points to a composer’s name.

“I... I’m not sure how to pronounce that, either. I guess it’ll be a surprise, won’t it?” Song tilts her head to the side, towards Six.

(Between Sarasa and Song’s head accessories, Six sinks down into his chair, arms crossed.)

* * *

The lights dim, and everyone stops talking. This is Nio’s favourite part, when the hush falls over the audience and everyone’s melody hones down to a single phrase, full of tense anticipation, waiting for the performer to step out and provide resolution for the presented dissonance.

It’s been a while since she’s formally performed in a hall like this. It’s not as if she doesn’t know what to expect, and she has nothing but confidence in her own passion, but still—

 _You’ve got a concert coming up?_ Siete asked, eyebrows raising in interest. _I suppose after things with Perfetto Island, it’s only natural. Hey—whaddaya say, wanna grab nine tickets for the Eternals? I’ll muscle ‘em into coming!_

 _Please don’t do that._ She sighed, looking up at him from her koto. _But if you really insist, I’m sure I could ask for some favours. Do_ not _embarrass me, please._

She managed to get the tickets to him, but she hadn’t heard from him since, busy with her own rehearsal schedule and Siete with other business, she can only imagine. She doesn’t particularly expect any of them to show up; they’ve never been the type to gather outside of necessity, and she hardly considers this one of those moments.

Still, as she steps out onto the stage, head held high and walking under the spotlight with her koto, she allows herself a momentary smile as the hall fills with applause, letting her eyes fall over the nine other Eternals in the front row.

Preparing her hands over the strings, the hall falls silent again, and yet the smile doesn’t leave her face. Now that she’s seen them, their melodies are clearer than anyone else’s in the crowd, thrumming with an innocent curiosity about her music. Striking the first notes, she lets the sounds fill the air, pressing down on the strings to vibrate them.

If the Eternals were like this more often, maybe she wouldn’t mind being part of it so much. She smiles, letting herself get carried away in the music.

* * *

When the show ends, she congratulates everyone involved on a job well done; music is always a personal ordeal, and it can reinvigorate one’s soul just as much as it can drain it when not given time to recover. When she exits the practice room, the other Eternals are already there. Siete starts cheering and clapping, and some of the others do, too.

“You’re all so loud,” she says, and then Funf runs up to her with a bouquet of flowers. It’s colourful, splashes of reds and purples and yellows, but not overwhelmingly large. It fits well in her hand, and she looks up at them, surprised. “Where did you get these?”

“Six grew them!” Funf says happily, and everyone turns to where Six is hunched against the wall out of sight, not making eye contact with anyone.

“You did?” Nio asks.

“I keep a garden,” he grumbles, barely audible. His hands are twitching like he wants to cover the rest of his exposed face. “Flowers grow back.”

“We all went to it and picked flowers we liked.” Funf rocks back and forth on her feet, her melody so shockingly bright that it nearly knocks Nio backwards.

Normally, the Eternals’ melodies are something to be observed at a certain distance; they’ve changed greatly over the years, always keeping who they are at the core, and they’ve grown more and more pleasant without losing their entrancing complexity.

Never has she considered wanting to sit down and simply listen to them as she does now, as each of them start telling her their favourite parts, everyone talking over each other, their experiences building into a crescendo. Everyone brings their own personal touches to the composition, and it’s not until now that she realizes just how similar everyone’s melodies can be.

She puts a hand in front of her mouth and laughs, once, and everyone stops to look at her. She tries to let her face fall back down to neutral, but it’s a lost cause. Genuine smiles always linger more than fake ones, and she knows it still reaches her eyes when she says, as kindly as she can, “I truly appreciate you all taking the time to watch me perform.”

“It was our pleasure,” Uno says. “My only regret is that we hadn’t done this sooner.”

* * *

Opening the window of their small base, Siete stretches, before returning to his seat. Somehow, barely a month after Nio's concert, he’s got all them of them in the room, with easels and basic paints. A small goth-looking Harvin stands at the front, hands on her hips.

“Now, everyone,” Siete says, “be nice to Lunalu. She owes me a favour.”

“I’ll owe you all the favours in the world if you keep voic—”

“ _So,_ let’s all be good artists,” he says, quickly speaking over her. He ignores the questioning looks he gets from the rest of the Eternals and picks up a pencil, shooting a warning glare at Lunalu.

For the most part, everyone is attentive; he deliberately takes a seat in the back row as he works and is pleased to find that everyone’s listening to Lunalu’s instructions, albeit with differing levels of success. From next to him, Quatre tries his best to scribble out a tree, and he grumbles, “Your ideas keep getting worse, y’know?”

“It’s nice to have an outlet for frustration,” Siete says quietly, eyes passing over everyone’s canvases. “I’m worried about your blood pressure, sometimes.”

“If you’re so worried, then you should leave us alone.” Still, Quatre focuses on his sketch with an intensity that rivals him in battle, with much less screaming noises.

Smiling, he looks up over his canvas as Lunalu begins explaining the next steps. “Can’t leave the Eternals alone. No one else but me can get you clowns to gather properly.”

* * *

Siete hangs all the paintings up in their ship.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thanks to my friend, who constantly enables my loving of the eternals. i love the eternals so much with all my heart, cygames give them content you COWARDS


End file.
